At Least A Week
by BlameThePlotBunnies
Summary: "A wise person once said 'do not try to run before you can walk', but Greg had never been one for listening to wise people." Greg gets hurt, is stubborn about it, and a little fluffy H/C follows. Mystrade. Established M/M relationship.


"I'll prescribe you some anti-inflammatory tablets and painkillers, and you'll need to keep off it for at least a week." The doctor at the hospital said, after taking a long look at the x-rays of DI Greg Lestrade's battered knee. "We'll get you some crutches sorted. Now, is there anyone who can take you home?"

"Yeah," Greg nodded "I'll call my boyfriend." He added, slipping his phone out of his pocket as the doctor wrote out his prescription.

Mycroft answered immediately and assured him he was on his way. Greg smiled and accepted the crutches a nurse had brought in while he was on the phone, shoving the prescription into his jacket pocket. He met the older man in the corridor, before he could intercept and terrify any of the nurses, thankfully, and his lover gently chastised him for re-awakening his old knee injury as they walked - or in Greg's case hopped, leaning heavily on the crutches - back to the mercifully waiting black car.

Three days later, Greg was determinedly walking again, sick of being stuck on desk duties.

Why, he asked himself later, had he ever gone out on a case with Sherlock?! Perhaps because John was away at a medical conference and Sherlock was liable to do stupid things when left unattended. Perhaps he was just an idiot. The younger Holmes was a magnet for trouble and Greg invariably found himself dragged along in his wake.

A wise person once said _'do not try to run before you can walk'_, but Greg had never been one for listening to wise people, and that was exactly what he tried to do, haring after the retreating back of Sherlock and the vanishing form of their quarry, heedless of the limp he had been studiously ignoring all day. Or, perhaps he should say _trying_ to hare after them, because it really didn't go too well for him. Indeed, the only place it went was sprawling in the dirt, a white hot pain lancing through his right leg. Gritting his teeth, Greg managed to roll over and drag himself into a semi-sitting position just in time to see Sherlock slapping his - stolen! - cuffs on their quarry. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to whichever God was responsible for this being an easy catch for the Consulting Detective. Greg wasn't in any state to help him if things had turned nasty, hell, he wasn't even sure he was in any state to stand up!

Just as he was wondering how the hell they were going to get back to the station if he couldn't get upright, let alone be of any use, his knight in shining armour rode up on a white charger. Well, okay, his lover in an expensive suit drew up in his black jag, but hey, he wasn't complaining. Mycroft stepped from the car, Anthea popping up at his side with Greg's crutches in hand. Mycroft took them from her with a grim smile and a nod of thanks before starting across to Greg.

"Stay off it for at least a week, he said; I'm fine, I'll be careful, you said; look at the state of you Gregory!"

"I-" Greg managed as he accepted the crutches and set about the arduous job of getting up off the ground without putting any weight on or otherwise jarring his burning knee in any way.

"Oh for goodness sake, come here!" Mycroft huffed, leaning down, hooking his hands under Greg's armpits and, with a turn of strength his exterior didn't betray, hauling him up.

"Thanks." Greg muttered, slipping his arms into the crutches and setting about walking back to the car. It was then he became aware that there was no way he could bear the swinging motion of walking with crutches. It hurt far too much. He could feel his lover and Sherlock watching him and found himself desperately wishing he could just force himself to keep going, but that really was out of the question. He halted a few feet away, his back to the brothers, his gaze fixed on the ground, willing the pain to ease off a bit. He heard a soft sigh behind him and then his lover's arms were curling around him, steadying and reassuring.

"A&E?" Mycroft murmured into his ear, gently.

Greg heaved a huge sigh "A&E." He confirmed, pivoting awkwardly on one foot and leaning against the reassuring warmth and solidity of Mycroft's chest.

"Anthea." Mycroft said, and Greg heard the younger woman on her phone, ordering an ambulance. He buried his face in the front of Mycroft's expensive suit jacket, biting his lip hard. He heard Sherlock's footfalls pass them and his voice telling their murder to shut up, among other things, fading into the distance. He was suddenly glad he'd let the Consulting Detective drive them here.

"Myc?" he asked, after a moment.

"Mmm?" Mycroft answered

"Do you think you can try not to have a go at me about this 'til tomorrow?" He said, his voice thick and half muffled by the jacket

"Are you crying?" His lover asked, his quiet voice concerned.

"No." He denied, unconvincingly, knowing that the salt water stains on Myc's jacket were going to give him away later anyway.

"Shh…" was Mycroft's gentle reply as he tightened his grip on Greg, supporting most of his weight; cupping the older man's head and stroking his hair with his left hand as they waited.

"We'll see if we can get you a quick referral to a specialist," the doctor in A&E said, "and I'll give you an extension prescription on the painkillers and anti-inflammatory tablets in the meantime. Do you think you can stay off it this time or do we need to keep you in?"

"Oh, he'll be staying off it, Dr., I assure you." Mycroft said, before Greg could reply, and there was a steely glint in his eyes that told Greg he was going to be in bed, or at least on the sofa, for at least a week.


End file.
